


Coercion

by roane



Series: Noirverse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Film Noir, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:53:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/pseuds/roane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noir. Two years after Sherlock's fall, Greg Lestrade is doing all right as a private detective. Maybe he drinks a little too much, but he's getting by. Until <i>he</i> shows up. John Watson is back on his doorstep, and he's got a case Greg needs to solve before it's too late...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [honeybee221b](http://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee221b/pseuds/honeybee221b) for some speedy beta work. All mistakes remaining are my own.

The sky over London was bleak and grey, cold drizzle slicking the streets and making everyone outside miserable. I was at my desk being miserable, which was the last place I wanted to be. My head was pounding and I had a mouth full of cotton. I still felt half-drunk. The details were a little hazy, but I suspected I hadn't spent the previous night in my flat. Or possibly not even in a bed. 

I was trying to tune out the racket Donovan was making in her office when I heard her say, "What are _you_ doing here?"

There was no answer, but I could see a silhouette through the frosted glass. He walked in and shut the door, and I knew there was trouble.

He was the kind of guy most people wouldn't look twice at: short, body camouflaged in dull jumpers and shirts buttoned up too high. His eyes were soft, deceptively soft; I knew better. That body and those eyes had broken hearts across three continents, including mine. And now here he was, taking up space in my new office.

He walked across the room like he knew every inch of it, like he'd been there a thousand times before. The collar of his black coat was still turned up against the weather outside, the mist clinging to his hair still glistening in the dim light of the room. He sat down across from me and leaned forward. I watched the tip of his tongue appear and swipe across his lower lip before dragging my eyes away. "Greg, I need your help."

Yeah, definitely trouble.

I leaned back in my office chair and put one foot up on my desk. "As I recall, the last time I gave you my help, I lost my job."

Everything about him was camouflage in fact, all designed to make the average person underestimate him. I noticed the contrast now more than ever. I knew better than to believe the sad little smile, the sudden downcast eyes. "I never wanted that to happen," he said. "Sherlock"—his voice breaks a little—"Sherlock wasn't a fake. I needed people to believe."

And for all that I knew without a doubt that John Watson would never let anyone see him looking vulnerable without a reason, I still had to fight the urge to take him home for tea and... sympathy.

"You falsified police documents," I said, swinging my foot down and leaning towards him. "You're lucky I didn't just have you arrested."

"I never properly thanked you for that, did I?" There might have been a hint of promise behind those words, or I might have been imagining things. Again. His eyes were on mine though, and I didn't think I was imagining things.

I cleared my throat and looked away first, feeling like I'd lost the first round. "What did you want, John?"

He brought a folded newspaper out of his coat and unfolded it so I could read the headline when he smoothed it onto my desk: "POLICE BAFFLED BY 'CLOSED ROOM' MURDER". I'd read the story—I kept up with all of the police cases I could. Twenty-three-year-old Ronald Adair, found shot in a grimy bedsit in a grimier part of the city. The police had no leads—it seemed that nobody wanted Adair dead. That alone struck me as fishy. Everybody has enemies.

"I think whoever killed Adair was trying to kill me instead," he said. "You have to help me, Greg. Someone out there wants me dead, and I can't figure out who or why."

I picked up the paper, but I already knew what I'd read there. "Why not go to the police? I'm sure Dimmock would be thrilled to have a lead at this point."

"No one at the Yard will talk to me." 

They wouldn't, would they? As far as they knew, Sherlock had led them on a merry chase and then cost a bunch of good officers—including yours truly—their jobs. John would be the last person they'd want to be seen talking to.

I sighed and rubbed at two days' worth of stubble. "No promises," I said. "I'll see what I can find out." He started to say something, but I held up my hand. "First thing, why are you so sure that was supposed to be you?"

John settled back in his chair, his left hand opening and closing. It was a familiar gesture, a tell that he was genuinely unsettled by something. "I lived in that bedsit until about twenty-four hours before the shooting."

"That's a quick turnaround."

He laughed, a dry, humourless sound. "The landlord isn't that bothered with cleaning. I knew I was being followed. It's happened, on and off since—well, since. But this was different. I caught someone spying into my apartment from across the street. It didn't feel safe anymore. So I left."

I watched his face. John had been a terrible liar once. I wasn't so certain anymore. "And you have no idea who might want you dead?"

John smiled, and it was one of the saddest smiles I'd ever seen. "Made a few enemies... before."

He had, no doubt. I had my own experience of ex-convicts coming around looking for revenge, but it had been over two years since Sherlock had taken his swan dive, and John had been—as far as the public was concerned at least—only incidental to Sherlock's investigations.

Not that many of those convictions lasted too long after he died a fraud.

"Right. So you want me to—what, track down who wants you dead? Or focus on keeping you alive?"

His eyes flicked over me once and I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me think of a night not long after Sherlock died. Hell, he'd been lonely and I'd been stupid enough to think I could fix that. He rose to his feet and I followed suit. John leaned over my desk and said, "If you're suggesting that I need a bodyguard..."

I leaned on my end of the desk, and there we were, just a short distance away from each other. "Somebody should look after it."

He smiled like he knew a secret, leaned a touch closer and said, "Just find out who it is for me. I can take care of myself."

Then he turned and walked out of my office, leaving me leaning against my desk with a new case and a feeling I'd just been played.

 

"You're not taking this job," Sally said, watching me walk out of my office. Sally Donovan had been a good cop, like me. Loyal, too. When I went down for letting a criminal mastermind steer me around London like a puppet, Sally followed me. While she'd been a good cop, she was still a little too bothered about the niceties of 'legal' vs. 'illegal' to make a good private investigator. She'd come around, or she wouldn't. For now she made a good liaison with the Met. Most of them weren't speaking to me anymore either.

"Oh? We're in a position to turn down work, are we?" My head still hurt, so I stumbled towards the coffee pot in the closet we called a reception area.

"Not _paying_ work, no," Sally said, leaning in her doorway. "I bet you didn't even set a price, did you? You were too busy watching his arse as he walked out the door."

"Shut it," I said. I fumbled for a mug, then put it down, changing my mind. "I've got some things to check up on. You?"

"Just that divorce case," Sally said. "Is it wrong that I wish they'd just shoot each other and get it over with?"

I laughed. "You sound more like me every day." I could hear her mumbling as I left the office, turning up my collar against the endless grey drizzle outside. The police down at the Yard might not want to talk to me, but I knew someone who would. There was a certain pathologist down at St. Bart's who would give me information in exchange for a decent cup of coffee.

Molly Hooper was a good kid, and a better pathologist. I knew her from my days with the Met. She was thorough, efficient, and looked damn good in a party dress. Unfortunately, she'd also made it clear that she was staying well away from me until I had things completely sorted with my ex-wife. Lucky for me, that didn't mean she wouldn't talk to me.

I caught her in the middle of making a y-incision down some poor bastard's chest. I guessed his age at about sixty—young enough and close enough to my age to make me feel a little squeamish about watching Molly cut him open. "Be with you in just a tick, Greg." 

After the Met sacked me, it had taken me a month to get her to start calling me "Greg" instead of "DI Lestrade". She never did believe that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. I asked her why once; with all the evidence that Sherlock had hired Richard Brook to play Moriarty, then killed Moriarty before committing suicide, it was hard to believe that anybody would take his side. She never did answer me. She had just looked at me with those big, sad eyes and I felt like a heel for even asking.

Sherlock Holmes had been the type of man that people either loved or hated. Me, I was one of the few who managed to straddle the fence, because I'd known him before he was the great internet detective. To me, he would always be the junkie kid I helped get clean. Kind of takes away some of the romance, once you've seen a guy covered in three-day-old sick.

Molly, though, she'd never seen that. To her, Sherlock would always be the dashing bloke in the coat and scarf, waltzing into her lab like he owned the place and treating her like something on the heel of his shoe. She fell for it hard. Which is why it always struck me as odd, his death didn't seem to faze her in the least.

You never know with people, I reckon.

Molly stepped back from the corpse and pulled off her gloves. "Here to buy me coffee again?" She smiled as she jotted the last of her notes about the man on the slab.

"I'll even throw in a scone, if you'd like. Or anything else you might fancy."

"Careful," she said, slipping past me with her files. "I might take you up on that some day."

Flirting with Molly Hooper was the closest thing I had to a love life, these days.

Over lukewarm coffee in the caf, Molly said, "All right, what are you after this time?"

I pulled out my notepad, a holdover from my days at the Met. "Ronald Adair. You know anything about him?"

She shook her head, "Greg, that's an open police case. I couldn't tell you anything about that even if I wanted to."

"Come on, Molls," I said, giving her my best smile. "You've done it before. You know I won't blab. It's for a case I'm working on."

"I really can't," she said. "Not this case."

I thought about it for a moment, then decided to give her the whole story. "John Watson came by my office this morning."

She lowered her cup, giving me her full attention. She'd known about Sherlock and John, of course, everybody did. "What did he say?"

"He thinks whoever killed Adair was gunning for him," I said.

The colour drained from her face. Peculiar, she hadn't had any particular love for the man who, in her eyes at least, must have been her rival. "Is he all right?"

"John? Yeah. But he's asked for my help."

Molly sighed and poked at the last crumbs of her scone. "I'll phone you tonight with what I can dig up, but you can't keep doing this, Greg. I'm going to get sack—" She broke off and blushed a little. "I mean."

"I know. You're a love, Molly. Thanks." I kissed her cheek then stood to go. "Call me when you have something."

 

That afternoon I got to spend in a different sort of morgue, looking through old newspaper stories about Ronald Adair. On a whim, I cross-referenced it with the bedsit itself, looking for any sort of connection, any sort of criminal activity linked to the address. It was the sort of detective work that had made my career, the sort that Sherlock had always looked down his nose at.

It was a clever idea, but like a lot of clever ideas, it went nowhere. John's old bedsit didn't have a particular connection to crime, any more than any other address in that neighbourhood. Which, frankly, was still a pretty strong connection. It wasn't a friendly place. I knew John had moved several times since Sherlock had taken his fall. I didn't realise how dodgy his new residences had been. 

Time for me to call in a favour. 

As I was walking back out into the drizzle I called Donovan. "Speaking of divorce cases... You still in touch with Anderson?"

"Funny. You've decided to be funny now," she said. I could hear her shuffling papers around on her desk.

"Yeah well, I try. Can you get a favour from him?"

She sighed. "What do you need?"

"A police report in the Ronald Adair case. And anything else you can pry out of him."

"Does this have to do with John?" She sounded like a sidecar with too much lemon: sour and bitter. "You know he can't pay you a bloody penny."

"You work your cases and I'll work mine. That's the agreement, yeah?" I already knew what she'd say in return. I could practically mouth it along with her.

"If you can't make your share of the office rent this month, I'm not bailing you out this time." 

"I know. Believe me, I know."

She muttered something under her breath. "Fine. I'll call him and see what I can get."

Sally would get what I needed, I knew. Anderson may have kept his job thanks to some decent political connections, but he was never able to refuse Sally anything. I needed to know who the Met had spoken to, what they knew about Ronald Adair. No sense in putting in all that legwork myself when they'd already done it for me.

I stopped at a cafe for another dose of caffeine. I was starting to feel almost human again. Maybe tonight I'd think about having a quiet night in, and not invite the bottle of bourbon this time. 

The coffee was just right, dark and bitter enough to suit me. I sat and watched the poor schmucks out in the rain and thought about Ronald Adair and John Watson. If John had been telling me the truth—and who knew with him anymore—the only connection between him and Adair was their address. I tried to focus more on Adair than John, as I sat there, but my thoughts kept drifting. 

If Sherlock had been a fraud, how had he managed to keep that secret from John for so long? They'd been inseparable. There hadn't been anything John wouldn't do for Sherlock. Sherlock had been a damned fool to give that up. I thought about the last time I'd seen John walk out my door before today. It had been early in the morning then, and he'd moved around my flat with that same calm, unassuming, 'don't look at me twice' steadiness. As if that had ever fooled me. The things he'd been able to do with his—

The realisation hit me so fast I nearly spilt my coffee. _How had Sherlock managed to keep that secret from John for so long?_

What if he hadn't?

The Yard had been baffled that Sherlock had managed to commit so many crimes without so much as a single accomplice being caught, or even suspected. But if he'd had one close accomplice, one no one would look at twice, one who—as I realised on the day I met him—was more than capable of committing murder in the name of Sherlock Holmes.

Surely not. I still wasn't convinced that those crimes had been Sherlock's anyway, but... if John had known, and had kept that secret—

I also remembered how broken John had looked at the funeral, how he didn't speak to anyone for weeks afterwards. No, he hadn't known anything, if there was anything to know. He couldn't have. You didn't fake grief like that. Still, something about this wasn't ringing true.

I was still trying to figure it out when I got a text message from Molly. _You owe me dinner_ , it said.

I told her to name the place and time.

 

It wasn't like I had a date with her. Still, it was dinner with a pretty girl, and I'd be a fool to show up in dire need of a shave and looking like I'd spent the night before in someone's bathtub. (I'd nearly remembered the night before—I was almost positive it had been a bathtub.) I cleaned up pretty well, if I did say so myself. And I did—say so myself. No one else had since Eva took off with the PE teacher.

We met at my favourite Chinese place. The owner's daughter was killed in a burglary attempt and she was grateful when we caught the guy. Ethics not being the problem they once were, I was more than happy to let her feed me every now and then.

Molly looked tired, but pleased to see me. She also had a folder with her, which I took to be good news. We ordered dinner first, the owner tipping me a wink as she took our menus.

"You're lucky you're cute," Molly said, taking up the first folder and handing it over.

"Yes, cute," I said, "Just what every forty-something bloke wants to be called." I took the folder.

"Forty-something," Molly smiled. "That's adorable. I've seen your ID."

Ouch. All right, so I hadn't seen forty in quite a while. Youth was overrated, anyway. I flipped through the folder to find copies of all the post-mortem reports on Ronald Adair. "Gunshot wound to the abdomen," I noted. "Any record here of what type of gun?"

"I don't have the ballistics report," Molly said. "I only tell you what happened—the Met gets to figure out the details."

"Mm," I said. "Still. Kid was clean otherwise, wasn't he?"

Molly sipped from her water glass. "Toxicology report isn't back yet, but initially, I'd say so. He was a perfectly healthy, well-fed, 23-year-old man. With a bullet in his stomach."

"Well at least he didn't die hungry," I said.

Apparently I still hadn't resolved things with the ex to Molly's satisfaction—she wouldn't even hear of me seeing her home. Thought about taking a cab home, but Sally had been right about one thing, the finances were a little tighter than I'd like. And I knew taking on this case for John was a... personal favour. 

I was so caught up in thinking this over, I failed to spot the black car tailing me until it was nearly at my side. There was no mistaking that car, sleek and shiny and black. Imposing. I didn't need to see the government plates to know I was about to receive a personal invitation to talk to the British government himself. No one who had any extended relationship with Sherlock Holmes did so without at least one conversation with his older brother. Usually of the ominous variety, where you walk away knowing that if you mess up no one will ever find your body.

As suspected, the car pulled up to the curb next to me and stopped. The back door swung open and revealed a set of legs that were—well, I'll just say that Mycroft's assistants were usually the type to make a man think getting kidnapped by the government wasn't such a bad thing after all. I sighed and walked towards the car. "Hello, Anthea."

"Detective Inspector," she said.

"Not anymore," I replied, clever man that I am.

She smiled, never looking up from her Blackberry. "Not right now." She didn't say another word as we drove through the darkened streets, leaving me to look out the windows at the city outside. We reached the edge of town and what looked like an abandoned warehouse. You'd think Mycroft Holmes didn't actually have an office, judging from his hidden-away meeting places around the city.

The man himself stood at one end of the warehouse, leaning against his brolly as if he hadn't a care in the world. He was impeccably groomed; his tie probably cost more than everything I was wearing added together. He would have been a looker, if not for the supercilious air, the constant self-satisfied look of a plump, spoilt house cat. Well that, and the fact that I never ended a conversation with him without having the urge to strangle him with that old-boy tie.

Lights flickered overhead, shadows chasing and retreating across his face. He was waiting for me to approach, so I did. The sooner I played this game, the sooner I'd be back home. I was reconsidering my night in. Inviting the bourbon over to play was beginning to have more and more appeal by the minute.

"Detective Inspector," he purred, once I'd got within six feet of him.

"You and your people keep calling me that. I'm going to start asking for my pay cheque back, at this rate."

"You might get it." He smiled, thin-lipped. "You're playing a very dangerous game right now, Detective Inspector."

"Oh? I was under the impression you liked that sort of thing."

"There are forces at work here that you know nothing about," he said, voice underlined with friendly menace. 

"There usually are," I agreed. "Especially where you and your family are concerned."

"John Watson doesn't need your assistance. In fact, your meddling is putting him at greater risk."

"John's a grown man," I said. "I reckon he can make decisions on his own about what sort of assistance he needs."

Mycroft smiled at that, looking down his imperious nose at me like he was looking down from a pedestal. "He can. And he has. John has made his choice abundantly clear. I'm trying to save you the trouble of discovering that for yourself."

I laughed. "Oh, I see. 'Stay away from the blond, he's trouble.'"

"Yes." Mycroft wasn't used to people laughing at him, especially not when he'd gone to all the trouble of kidnapping them away to a secluded location with handy body-disposal sites nearby. "You really have no idea, Detective Inspector. And I'd hate to see you..." he paused and looked me up and down, the implication unmistakable, "...get hurt."

I raised an eyebrow. "Was that a threat or were you trying to pull me?"

He just smiled. "Stay away from John Watson, Greg. Back away from the Ronald Adair case. It's all been taken care of. There's no need for you to get involved."

"And if I refuse?" I was already involved. I was involved when John showed up at my door, looking vulnerable and sad. Hell, I was involved before that, and I knew it.

Mycroft Holmes shook his head. "I can't be responsible for what might happen to you. And that's a terrible shame."

"I'll take it under advisement," I said.

He glanced over my shoulder, a signal of some sort, as Anthea came forward, her high-heeled shoes clicking on the broken, stained concrete.

"If you'll come with me, Detective Inspector," she said. "We'll get you home."

I followed her back to the waiting car, but not before glancing over my shoulder at Mycroft. He hadn't moved, still leaning against his brolly and watching me leave. "Remember what I said, Greg. You don't know what you're getting into here."

He was right, but that didn't mean I wasn't already in it up to my neck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [hiddenlacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenlacuna) for the excellent beta work and the suggestion of a few particularly noir-ish turns of phrase. :)

So maybe I did have a nice chat with my friend the bourbon bottle that night, but we kept it short and sweet. I still felt like myself when I woke up the next morning. I even had time to enjoy some coffee in my flat before I left. I sat at my broken-down kitchen table with my toast and mug, and looked through the files Molly had given me the night before. It was something of a miracle, really, that Mycroft Holmes hadn't taken them from me. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd made information disappear.

Molly's report was thorough and concise, just as I'd expect. There wasn't much more to it than what she'd said at dinner. Ronald Adair was a completely healthy man with no signs of foul play on his body other than the bullet wound in his gut. That alone was a puzzle. The only signs of violence on the kid were a cleanly-healed broken leg of indeterminate age, and a scar on his knee so old it had stretched as he'd grown. No track marks, no scars from fights; hell, he hadn't even had his appendix out—not the sort of kid you'd expect to find living one step away from the streets. Was he on the run from something? Got thrown out by a family that, to judge from his clothing, was a comfortably middle-class one?

My phone beeped, reminding me it was time to go to the office. As I shrugged into my coat, a question occurred to me, one so obvious I nearly smacked myself between the eyes. If John had been living in the same dump that Adair was killed in, what was _John_ on the run from? It wasn't a reassuring thought.

"You're late," Sally said, as I walked into the office.

"Not like it matters," I said, shrugging out of my coat and hanging it up.

"It does today, apparently." Sally handed me a folder I recognised from my days with the force. "You owe me. More than the rent, this time."

A quick flip-through confirmed that it was the police file on the Adair case. "Do I want to know what you had to do to get this?"

"You owe me," she repeated. "I still can’t believe you get paid for things like this... oh wait, you _don't_. You also owe me for not throwing your 'client' out after he broke in to our office last night."

"What?"

She nodded towards my closed door. "He was here when I got in. I should've called the cops."

" _John?_ "

She gave me a sour smile. "All yours, Greg. Just—tell me if we need to start discussing leaving a sock on the office door, all right?"

I rolled my eyes and smacked her upper arm gently with the folder, then went into my office.

John was curled up asleep on the battered sofa in the corner. I'd taken my own share of naps in that same place after one too many late nights. I debated stepping out and grabbing a cup of coffee when he jerked awake and sat up. He looked at me, eyes wide and dazed with sleep. He looked like he'd been chased through Hell by the Devil himself.

"Coffee?" I offered. He nodded at scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of both hands. I dropped the folder on my desk and stepped out, grabbing a couple of mostly-clean mugs and filling them from the coffeemaker. He was still rubbing at his face when I came back and sat next to him, handing him the cleaner of the mugs.

"Thanks." His voice was low and hoarse.

I let him take a few sips, and got in a few of my own. Then I asked, "You wanna tell me how you wound up kipping on my office sofa?"

"Felt safer," he said, glancing at me sidelong with a sheepish half-grin. "I guess I'm getting paranoid in my old age."

"You don't get to make old jokes," I said. "Followed again?"

He shrugged, rubbing his hand over the top of his head then down his face. "Maybe not followed so much as watched. Home didn't sound like a good option." John gulped down the coffee, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't watch his throat as he swallowed.

"You never said. Where is home these days?" I started to take his empty cup away, but he covered my hand with his. When I looked back, I saw he was studying me closely. His eyes looked almost brown in this light, and they weren't soft and vulnerable anymore. He looked like a dog waiting for a kick in the ribs. It twisted in my gut.

"I'd like to keep that to myself for now," he said.

"What, you'll come in here to sleep, but you won't tell me your address? That's pretty standard information to collect from a client, you know." I took the cup away and set it aside before turning to face him. "You should know by now you can trust me."

He looked away like he was embarrassed. "I don't know who to trust right now," he said softly. There it was, that hint of vulnerability. Something was off. All of my instincts screamed it. 

"John, what the hell is going on? I can't help you if you don't tell me everything."

"You're not telling _me_ everything," he shot back. "What did Mycroft Holmes want with you?"

I blinked, sat back a bit. "Were you following me?"

"He meddles, you know that. Did he offer to pay you for information?"

"What? No," I said. "He offered to break my legs for me. I think." Mycroft was never exactly direct in the best of circumstances.

Whatever I was expecting from John, I wasn't expecting him to look so terrified, or to grab my collar and haul me in to start kissing me. I was too shocked to react at first, but my lizard brain kicked in and before I realised it I was half-sprawled on top of him on my sofa, pressing him back and biting at his jawline.

"He could have killed you," John gasped, arching his neck just the way I remembered. "You can't tell him anything. For all I know he's part of it..." His words softened into a sigh when I nipped at his ear.

Generally speaking, having sex with a client in my office wasn't something I approved of, but I was prepared to make an exception in this case. If there was ever a time to seize the day, now was that time. Two weeks. That was all I'd had before, and two years later I still couldn't get them out of my mind. And here he was, warm and drawing me in...

"Greg," he panted. "I mean it, what did you tell him, please..."

"Nothing, nothing I swear," I was focused on getting his shirt unbuttoned. "He knew everything already. He knew about Adair... oh god, I've missed this..."

John pushed me off and sat upright. "He—he knew?" It was like someone had tossed a bucket of ice water onto him. "Shit. _Shit._ Greg... I was afraid—oh god."

He'd changed tracks so fast I nearly derailed trying to keep up with him. My body was already starting to complain that there was too much conversation going on, my fingers itching to get back to fumbling at buttons. "What? What is it?"

"I have to go." John jumped to his feet, grabbing his jacket from where it lay on the floor. "If anyone asks you, you haven't seen me. I wasn't here."

"John—"

He leaned down and gave me a chaste peck on the cheek. Not precisely what I'd been hoping for a few minutes earlier. "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. Call me when you find something out, and for god's sake, be careful."

And with that he was out of my office, shutting the door behind him and leaving me with the faint throb of disappointment.

"Damn it," I growled, taking a deep breath and trying to relax. I reached over to my desk and grabbed the police report. May as well do something useful with my time. Even if it did take my brain a few more minutes to kick into gear.

The police report was pretty straightforward. It included the information I already had from Molly, of course. According to the ballistics report, the bullet had likely come from an L115 sniper rifle— _that_ was interesting. I made a note to check into that. An L115 wasn't the sort of thing you could just tuck into your pocket after you were finished killing someone. It also wasn't the easiest thing to acquire. 

The shot that killed Adair came from a flat across the street, easy to pinpoint. It had been leased to an Adam Worth, but so far that name had turned up nothing but a clean paper trail. An alias, obviously. The oddest part was that the lease had been paid up in advance, six months' rent in cash.

I spent the morning with several more cups of coffee and the paperwork in front of me. I read interviews with Adair's family and friends and neighbours. I read his school records. I read ballistics reports. The one thing about the case that stood out to me the most was that the case made about as much sense as a cherry in a martini. There was no reason I could see that anybody would want to kill Ronald Adair, much less lay out the money to pay for a shitty bedsit for six months in order to get the chance to do so.

And even if they had, they'd need to be psychic—the flat was leased _before_ Adair moved in. Everything pointed to Adair being the victim of a failed hit on someone else. How had Dimmock not spotted that? Of course, he didn't know what I knew: that John Watson had lived in that flat first.

I swallowed cold coffee, even though by now my stomach was making acidic protests. That first day he'd come in, John claimed that he'd made enemies working with Sherlock, but that didn't make much sense either. An ex-con wouldn't have the cash to make the sort of investment I was seeing here. Someone definitely wanted John Watson dead—that much was obvious. And it wasn't any small-time criminal. This was something big.

I pushed away from the desk, stretching out my back, stiff from sitting. I paced my office, feeling like the answer was staring me right in the face. The round from the L115. Something about that was niggling in the back of my brain. I'd seen it before, where?

Twitching with the caffeine in my bloodstream, I walked out of my office and into Sally's. "Sniper murders."

She looked up from her computer, scowling at me. "What?"

"People killed by a sniper rifle. L115. We saw some, yeah?" I paced in her office for a change. The lighting was better here. "Help me think. Who were they?"

"This is the case for John, isn't it." 

"Yes, and the faster you help me, the faster I can solve it and move on to something else. So come on. Sniper cases. Gimme." Her memory for details had always been better than mine.

"Hang on." Sally frowned and dug through her files. "There was the man killed outside his office—turned out his wife was cheating on him and hired a hit..."

"Anything connected to any of Sherlock's cases?"

"Just one. Chinese national, part of a circus. We never managed to solve it."

"Oh my god, Dimmock's an idiot," I said. "That was his case. The nine million quid pin, yeah?"

Sally flipped over a piece of paper. "Yeah, that was the one."

"Any other ones like that?" I was so keyed up I was nearly vibrating off the floor. It was all right there, that moment where everything fell into place.

"No... but..."

"Go on."

"John and Sherlock both claimed there were snipers at the pool the night John said he was kidnapped."

"Moriarty," I said. Of course, _of course_. The circus smuggling ring had been a part of Moriarty's web. That web must have had a pet sniper or two handy for quick clean up.

"You need to tell Dimmock," Sally said.

"Yeah... it might be about that time," I said. I headed for her office door. "Thanks, Sally. I owe you."

"—again," she said.

I waved and grabbed my jacket, heading out into the street.

 

I walked towards the Tube station, wishing John were a paying client so I could expense a cab. As I stood there waiting for the light to change, I heard a couple of young toughs talking behind me. I didn't have to turn around to know the type. I could hear the street in their voice, and could tell enough from their words that it wasn't all bravado. The light changed, and I crossed, the kids right behind me. As my feet touched the pavement, I heard one of them say, "Hey, old man. You got any change?"

I could have ignored it and walked on, but the tingling at the back of my neck said I needed to turn around, and quickly. I turned to see two upstanding pillars of society slouching there, scruffy blokes in ripped jeans and dirty windbreakers. No sign of gang paraphernalia or football colours, which was a start. "Sorry, lads."

I watched them watch me for a minute, then one of them gave me a shove towards the alleyway behind me. "We'll check for ourselves," he said. 

The neighbourhood our office was in wasn't a sparkling clean one, but I'd never had the experience of being mugged in broad daylight before. "Listen," I said, "I meant it, I don't have any—"

"Shut up," the first one said. Then to his partner he said, "Grab his arms."

I saw it coming too late, and tried to wrestle free while the second guy, taller and bulkier than the first, grabbed my arms and pinned me in place. 

Mr Talkative threw the first punch, a hard right to my gut. The air whooshed out of me and I would have doubled if not for the grip around my arms. Then came a hook to my cheekbone that rattled my teeth and made me see stars.

"Okay, you got me," I said, gasping. "There's a fiver in my wallet. I can tell you need it. It oughta be good for some breath mints at least."

Another sock in the gut and the kid was nearly wearing all the coffee I'd had to drink that morning. "Nothing to do with money, Mr Lestrade," he said. A left hook across my jaw nearly sent me to my knees. Christ, everything was going blurry and starting to hurt. I could taste blood in my mouth.

"What? How'd you know my name?"

The punches kept coming. I knew at least one of my eyes was going to be black. This little exercise might cost me a few teeth as well. "You're interferin' where you're not wanted, Mr Lestrade," the kid behind me said, the first time he'd spoken. "A friend of ours wanted us to pass the message along."

It was difficult to think, especially when I was trying to decide if I had a cracked rib. And then trying to decide if I should vomit or pass out. "What? Who?"

"Consider yourself off the case," the smaller kid said. "Back off Ronald Adair. It's none of your concern."

 _Adair? But what..._ Before I could form the words, the kid holding me let go. I stumbled to my knees, the ground rising up to meet me like an old friend with a cricket bat. The last thing I remember were a couple of hard kicks to my kidneys before I blacked out.

 

I woke up to the feel of a cool cloth brushing against my cheek. It stung. I pulled away with a wince, trying to open my eyes. Molly was leaning over me with worried eyes. I couldn't place where I was right away. The light was cold, too bright. "Molls...?"

"Shh," she said. "You're fine. You're at St. Barts."

"St. Barts... they don't have an A & E department, what am I..."

"I said 'shh'," she said, this time putting a finger over my mouth. I liked that. It hurt a little; I could tell at least one of my lips was split badly. "You're in my lab, and before you ask, no you aren't dead, you git. Looks like it was a near thing though. What happened?"

"Your lab, but—"

"I stopped by to bring you the toxicology reports. Sally said you'd just left, so I thought I'd catch you at the Yard. Lucky for you, I heard you groaning in that alley."

"Two punks," I said. I swallowed. My throat was so very dry. "Thought they wanted money. Turns out they just wanted to get their hands on me." My voice cracked on the last word. 

Molly handed me a water bottle with a straw stuck in the top. "And who could blame them," she teased.

That sip of water burned like whiskey going down, but it felt good anyway. "How did I get here?"

"You, uh, don't remember? We took a cab. You were pretty out of it," Molly said. "I wanted to take you to a real A & E, but you wanted to go home. I figured this was a compromise. You're lucky you don't need stitches," she said, tilting my chin to look at my cheek. "You _should_ get x-rays."

Her words seemed a little off, but _everything_ seemed off. "Mighta cracked a rib," I said, poking tentatively at my side and wincing. Not broken, but tender. I poked my tongue around in my mouth. All my teeth were intact, which was a nice surprise.

"Sit still a minute," she said, and went rummaging in a freezer, coming out with ice packs. She glanced back at me, then grabbed another one and some paper towels. "We need to get ice on you. I'm not even sure where to _start_." Molly handed me two of the paper-wrapped ice packs and pointed at my cheek. "Ice that and your eye, and let me see your side." I showed her the side that had taken the most kicks. She tugged up my shirt and winced, touching one spot carefully. "You're going to be every colour of the rainbow in a day or two." 

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt the cold paper. "Jesus," I yelped. "Warn a guy. What kind of doctor are you?"

Molly laughed at me, but her fingers were careful. "The kind who deals with dead people all day. Now hold still."

I tried, and sat there with an ice pack pressed to each side of my face and with Molly pressing one to my ribs. She looked up at me for a moment, all big brown eyes and wry smile. "What am I going to do with you?"

"If I didn't have a cracked rib, I'd have a few ideas," I said.

"I'm sure you would," Molly said, leaning a little closer. I lowered the ice pack from my cheekbone so I could put an arm around her waist to pull her closer. She caught my wrist and smiled a little wider. "But for now, ice. Not heat." She leaned up and kissed me below the bruise forming on my cheek, and moved my hand back up and pressed the ice pack back into place. Then she tucked my arm against the ice pack on my side, which made me pretty well immobilised.

I sighed as she moved away, clearing up the rest of her first-aid kit. "What does a guy have to do to catch a break around here?"

Molly laughed and grinned at me over her shoulder. "Buy me dinner in a day or two. You'll need someone to check on how that bruise on your side is healing."

"Yeah? You sure about that?" I should have got beaten in an alleyway long before this.

"Yeah," she said. "Now hold still and let that ice do its job."

 

I made it back to my flat just after dark, moving like a man twice my age. Despite the paracetamol Molly had given me, everything hurt. Tomorrow was going to be hell. I poured myself a drink and made it to my sofa. I managed to kick off my shoes, then leaned my head back and groaned. Someone didn't like where my investigation was going. Which meant that someone thought I was on the right track, and that same someone didn't want word getting out. As a ploy to shake me loose, telling me I was right almost never worked.

So, Moriarty's old web _was_ involved with the murder of Adair—or else someone else had already reached the same conclusion and wanted to keep it to themselves. I sat there for several minutes, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle into place. The piece that made the least sense was John. Why John? With Sherlock out of the way, John hadn't gotten back into the consulting detective business. Had Sherlock told him something before he jumped to his death?

Sherlock might have known any number of things about Moriarty's network that he didn't tell me. He'd be a close-mouthed bastard right up until he'd start laying out the case, point by point, then I'd get a deluge of information. Information that, often as not, would have let me solve the case if he'd bothered to give it to me earlier. He'd been a goddamned show-off. To judge by John's face during some of Sherlock's deductions, he'd been as surprised as I was.

So no, it didn't seem likely that Sherlock had been sharing information with John on a regular basis. But would Moriarty's old buddies know that? Thinking was making my head ache. If I were smart, I'd finish my drink and go crawl under the covers.

I was just about to take my own very good advice when my mobile rang. I dug it out of my pocket and answered without looking. "Lestrade."

"He found me." It was John. He was whispering, and sounded out of breath.

I sat up, setting my glass aside. "Who? Who found you?"

"Adair's killer. He's here, he's right here." 

"John, where are you?"

There was a loud thud, a grunt, and then a crash. "John!"

I heard a rustling sound, and then an unfamiliar voice. "Mr Holmes. We have some unfinished business to take care of." Mr Holmes? Did he think I was Mycroft?

"What have you done to John?" I lowered my voice in an approximation of Mycroft's voice, but it would have never fooled anyone who'd met the man.

"Just made certain he's not going to be any trouble for me," the voice said. The accent was posh, but the clipped kind of posh that spoke of accent coaches and a past best forgotten. "And if you do as I say, Mr Holmes, you might even get him back in one piece."

"What do you want?"

"Meet me at the pool in an hour." The man laughed. "I'd say midnight, but let's not drag this out. Still, that would have a certain poetic feel to it, wouldn't it?"

"What happens if I don't?" I grabbed the pad of paper on the side table and started making notes. _Higher pitched voice, with a slight whine to it. Accent likely fake._

"Then I'm afraid John Watson will die. Alone." He paused to let that sink in. "And Mr Holmes, I know all about you and your clever ideas. Don't try any of them, or your precious soldier will die alone and screaming."

"I—"

"The pool. One hour." There was a click, and the line went dead.

I was utterly baffled at first. The pool, what pool? It hit me. Of _course._ The pool where Moriarty had first revealed himself. But why had John called me? And why did his mysterious attacker think I was Mycroft? An hour. That gave me almost no time to look into anything—which I knew was part of the plan. I had no idea what I was about to walk into, and no real way out of it. After Ronald Adair, I had every reason to believe the stranger's words. If I didn't show up, John would die.

Somewhere along the way I'd managed to obtain a Glock 17, just like the one I'd used with the Met. I think Sally knew, but we didn't talk about it. 'Plausible deniability', she'd say. I pulled my jacket over the shoulder holster I hadn't worn in months, and headed out.

I knew better than to think this guy wouldn't see me coming, but that didn't mean I had to go in the front door. The building was quiet and dark, the air humid and full of the smell of chlorine. Footsteps would echo, so I stepped carefully through the shadows. There was a thin line of light coming from the direction of the pool itself. It occurred to me that the sniper might have snipers of his own. This could get very bad, very fast. 

Looking through the half-open door I could see John, slumped in a straight-back chair facing away from me. His arms and legs were bound. He didn't appear to be conscious. The bait in the trap, clearly. I checked my watch. Ten minutes to go until the scheduled meeting time. I was torn: did I spend those ten minutes scoping out the rest of the building, letting John out of my sight? Or did I force the confrontation early, and hope for a slight element of surprise?

My decision was made by the appearance of a weaselly little man in a dirty trenchcoat on the other side of the pool. He walked like a man who was used to avoiding notice, slouched and cautious. He rounded the pool to kneel behind John, fussing with the bindings around John's wrists. When he did, his back was to me. The opening was right there.

I started towards him and got three steps before he said, "I know you're there, so mind your manners, Mr Holmes." He rose to his feet and turned around. I had the Glock out and in my hands before he'd even started to turn. "Well," he said. "That's unexpected."

"What, that I'm not Mycroft Holmes, or that I've got the drop on you?"

His forehead creased as his eyebrows dove for cover under his lank, colourless hair. "I'm not the least bit surprised that you're not Mycroft," he said, then nodded at the gun. "I'm surprised you were stupid enough to bring that." He backed around John, and I could see what I hadn't before. He had his own handgun, and it was pointed right at John. "Seems Captain Watson is wilier than I gave him credit for, sending in a patsy."

"I'm no one's patsy," I said, taking a step forward.

He motioned with the gun and I stopped. "No?" he said. "Well you're certainly not the person I expected John to call, that's for certain." He glanced down at John then back to me, studying me with his rat-like eyes. "You're not quite what I need, but I suspect you'll do for a start."

I levelled my stance and kept the Glock aimed at his head. "What start?"

"I have a job to finish," he said. He shook his head and chuckled, the sound a whispery whine. "You might count as extra credit, Mr Lestrade."

"Fine, you have the advantage of me. Care to tell me who I'm about to shoot?"

"No one, I should think," he said, "unless you want John Watson to die first." He smirked at me like he was daring me to shoot.

John groaned and stirred, then jerked awake. He looked around for a moment, then groaned again. "The bloody pool. You have no sense of originality at all, do you?"

"You called the wrong loverboy," John's kidnapper said. 

"You'll never find him," John said, his voice tight with pain. 

A picture was starting to form in my mind, and it wasn't a very pretty one. "John—"

The man laughed. "Oh, John. You didn't tell him, did you? That wasn't very nice of you." He looked up at me and grinned like a shark scenting blood. "Our friend's been keeping secrets from you, Lestrade. Johnny isn't the one who needed protection. That is to say, he wasn't my primary target, until now."

"Fine, shoot me then," John growled. "I'm not telling you anything, Moran."

"Wait. You _know_ him?"

"John's been chasing me for years." Moran grinned at me. "Your boyfriend here's been keeping one very big secret. Can you figure out what it is?"

I shook my head. Moran was stalling for something, but damned if I could figure out what. "Sherlock Holmes is alive. Very much so. And you two are going to be the ones to bring him to me."

"You're full of shit," I said. "I saw the body."

"I'm sure you did," Moran said, smiling. "And who filled out the death certificate?"

"You leave her out of this," John said.

"Oooh, protective. Took you a long time to forgive her though, didn't it? For lying to you. For helping Sherlock fake his death."

"John?" This was insane. None of this made the least bit of sense to me. Sherlock was alive? Molly was involved? John glanced at me over his shoulder and he gave his head a small shake.

"Johnny here's known for... what, almost two years now?"

"I'm sorry," John said. "I couldn't tell you."

"So it wasn't John you were trying to kill when you shot Ronald Adair," I said, looking to Moran. "Why John now, then?" I'd think about Sherlock later. Right now I only wanted to get John out of here and somewhere safe.

"Oh yes," Moran said, his faux-posh accent growing even more plummy. "By all means, pull up a chair, and I'll tell you everything. All you need to know is that neither of you is leaving this room alive. Now why don't you put that gun d—"

John flung himself forward, falling into Moran and knocking his gun hand wide. The gun went off and someone yelled. I came around to the side as they fell into a tangle on the tile floor, cursing. Moran still had the gun, but John was between us, blocking my shot.

"John, move!"

He fell away, dragging the chair with him. Moran looked up and raised the gun. I fired two rounds into his chest. His hand dropped, then was still. I kicked the gun, sending it spinning across the tile floor. John groaned, and I climbed over Moran's body to get to him. I straightened the chair and knelt in front of it. There was blood streaming from the corner of his mouth. I touched it, and he jerked away. "Are you okay?" I said, looking him over, frantic. "The shot—"

John shook his head, breathing fast and shallow. "Heard the ricochet. You?"

"Fine." I touched his cheek, then reached down to start tugging at the knots around his ankles.

"My hero," he murmured.

I didn't look up, puzzling out the knot around his left leg. "You could have told me."

"I really couldn't have," he said.

I got him untied, and the first thing he did was check Moran. "He's dead." John looked up from where he was kneeling. 

"Yeah, well it was you or him," I said, reaching down to help him to his feet. He started to pull his hand from mine, but I held on. "You knew the whole time."

"Not—not the whole time," he said, licking his lips and glancing away.

"Yeah, but you knew in my office yesterday."

"I did." He looked back at me, his eyes soft. "I'm sorry."

"You knew Moran," I said, stepping closer. "What did you really need me for?"

He didn't answer.

"John?"

"I needed... you."

I laughed even though it stung. "You've played that card already."

"I knew," he said, swaying still closer, "that Moran would try to use me as bait."

"Oh, and better he shoot me than someone important?"

John reached up and touched my cheek and he looked so apologetic, I had to fight to hang on to my train of thought. "You're important," he said.

"Not that important," I answered, leaning down to meet him halfway.

His eyes were slipping closed when I heard a voice I'd never expected to hear again. "John! Are you all right?" 

I stared, unable to grasp exactly what I was seeing. There was a dead man walking towards us. Sherlock was thinner than I remembered, his hair shorter. He still had that same ridiculous overcoat, but it hung on him like it had belonged to someone else. In a way, I suppose it had.

John jerked away from me. "I'm fine," he said, glancing back at me once before walking over to Sherlock. 

"You called him and not me?" Sherlock was saying.

"I couldn't let him find you," John said. They were holding on to each other's shoulders, foreheads pressed together. I looked away, and found myself looking at Moran's corpse. It was clear self-defence, but then there'd be the question of why I had an illegal handgun. I sighed and got out my mobile. May as well get it over with.

"I tracked the GPS in your phone."

"I should have known you would." I didn't have to look at John to hear that smile in his voice.

"Lestrade." Sherlock's voice had that same imperious, commanding tone. I paused in the middle of dialling the Met and looked at him. "I've already called Mycroft. You shouldn't face too much difficulty."

"Mycroft! Sherlock, you said—" John glanced at me and I thought I saw a trace of guilt. "I thought he was after you too."

"He was. He wanted to bring me in for a 'proper debriefing'." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "And I wanted to avoid that."

"You prat," John said, and the affection in his voice made me want to wince.

I cleared my throat. "So, your big brother's going to come in and just--what, clean this up?"

"It's what he does best," Sherlock said with a smirk. "Just wait here. He'll have a team out shortly. Come on, John, let's go home and give Mrs Hudson a shock."

I watched the two of them walk away together, leaving me with the corpse at my feet and nothing to do but wait. 

 

It was nearly daybreak by the time I made it back to my flat. 'Debriefing' with Mycroft Holmes actually meant hours of questioning and a plan to keep my story straight. The Glock I had worked so hard to obtain and conceal was evidence now, with a trail showing it had belonged to one Sebastian Moran, along with the Browning he'd pointed at John. Firearms were dangerous. A man was likely to be shot with his own weapon if he tried to use it against the wrong person.

I closed the front door behind me, feeling the beginnings of a headache starting behind my eyes. My side ached from where I had taken that punk's boot. I was not going to the office today. Sally could handle any new cases of petty theft or infidelity on her own. I shrugged out of my jacket and kicked off my shoes before staggering into the kitchen to make tea. Even by my standards, it was too early for anything stronger.

I knew John had been playing me from the minute he walked into my office, so I don't know why being proved right was such a kick in the gut. You would have thought that would make it all better. But it didn't. I didn't want to believe, I suppose. And there was still the question of how Sherlock had survived that fall, and what he—well, what he and John—had been doing since. 

Time enough to worry about that later. This morning I was going to drink my tea, then crawl into my bed and not come out until I felt like a human being again. I flipped on the telly as I collapsed onto my sofa, blinking to see a video of Sherlock and John leaving the front door of the Baker Street address, surrounded by reporters.

"Mr Holmes! Sherlock! Is it true that you faked your death to disprove Moriarty's allegations?"

"John! Did you know he was alive all this time?"

"Come on, just give us a smile, just one."

The two of them walked on side by side, neither of them saying a word. The shot came back to the presenter behind her desk. "Authorities at Scotland Yard say they are considering what, if any, charges they'll pursue against Holmes and Watson, but insiders suggest that the matter will never see the inside of a courtroom."

"That's for damn sure," I muttered, hitting the off button on the remote. My mobile rang and I groaned. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to anybody. I looked at it, then decided to answer it. "Molly?"

"Greg, I'm sorry, I know it's early. Did you see the news?"

"Yeah," I said. I wasn't sure what else there was to say.

"So you know." She sounded uncertain.

"I know everything," I said. "I talked to them both last night." True, I didn't quite know everything, but I knew enough.

"Can you meet me for coffee later this morning?"

I looked at my watch. It was just barely 7 am. "Make it this afternoon and you're on."

"I think I have a few things to explain," she said.

"Yeah," I said. "Lucky for you, you're cute."

Molly laughed, and there was just enough sleep left in her voice to make the sound low and sweet. "No, lucky for _you_ I'm cute."

I grinned and laid my head back against the sofa. "Yeah. I think you might be right," I said. I was feeling pretty lucky after all.

**Works inspired by this one:**

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  * [[Podfic] Coercion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/831758) by [roane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/pseuds/roane)




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